


Everything About You Makes Me Scream

by Skalidra



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: 'These characters have no idea what they are to each other' tag, Arguing, Hand Jobs, Instructive sex, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Probably the first time that's been used as a, Self-Esteem Issues, Undecided Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-13 04:46:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11177346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: One night, Tim and Damian have an intoxicated, short encounter in the corner of a party. An encounter that Tim immediately pretends never happened, much to Damian's irritation. It may not have been a good idea (regardless of how good it felt at the time), but he's sure as hell not about to let Tim wipe it out of existence, at least not without a fight.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tomsawyermaneuver](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=tomsawyermaneuver).



> **This was a commission!** (From Tomsawyermaneuver over on Tumblr!) They asked for Tim and Damian figuring out a relationship (and, you know, some other finer points, but that was the basis and the important part).
> 
> [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)

Damian is proud when he grows taller than Drake, and then even Grayson. It strikes late, but his final growth spurt leaves him standing just an inch above Grayson, shorter than Father and Todd still, but close enough that he no longer feels so dwarfed beside them. At least mostly. As he grows, it also becomes clear that there is more of his mother in him than expected, and instead of becoming broad and thick like his father he stays lean, stays thin and defined instead of putting on weight and mass. It is… not as frustrating as it could be, given that flexibility and speed have always been his go-to weapons as opposed to strength, but there are still times that he envies Todd's weight and the ability to simply bully his way to victory through raw strength.

Watching his father and Todd spar, though the act is rare, is perhaps the time he is closest to jealousy. They are… _powerful_ , in a way that he is not. In a way that he is surpassed in even by Grayson, though at least not by any of the girls, or _Drake_. Drake, at least, is still smaller and slimmer than he is, and past the age of that ever changing. It pleases Damian to have that constant, undeniable victory hanging over Drake's head.

The others he has allowed himself to grow some level of tolerance towards, if not affection, but he still dislikes all that Drake represents. His predecessor in every sense, and the favored one in many more. His _grandfather's_ favorite, even above himself. More popular, better known, better respected. He still feels like an outsider in most teams, but Drake is welcomed as easily as Grayson is, these days.

His friends among the heroes of the world are… rare. Drake's are numerous. He envies that nearly as much as he envies the respect and attention of his grandfather. It is clear, now, that he will never inherit the League. (Drake might, if he slips far enough in morality, and even the knowledge that Drake _wouldn't_ is not always enough to quell how jealous it sometimes makes him.)

He watches Drake because of it, more often than perhaps he should. He cannot bring himself to become as tolerant of Drake as he is others, not with that hanging over his head, but it is not a bad piece of advice to keep those you dislike close, so he watches. Learns. He knows Drake does the same to him, has known ever since he was still young and found the files with the plan to defeat him hidden away in their depths. They exist in an… uneasy truce, most days. Not enemies, but certainly not anything remotely like friends. Too many sharp words are exchanged between them for that to happen, he's sure. At least, that's what his experience of 'normal' social interactions has taught him.

Because of that, he never sees the eventual encounter approaching. Perhaps it was inevitable that the tension be released in some way, once they stopped physically fighting. Or perhaps it was simply some combination of the adrenaline, the buzz of alcohol in his veins, and the _intensity_ of the words they share.

Damian doesn’t know how that mistake progresses, but somewhere past snapping and mocking each other he ends up biting his own lip to stay quiet, with Drake’s mouth wrapped around him. He bites harder when Drake stands again and puts them both together in his hand, and the slide of them is slick and filthy in a way he’s not accustomed to. Somehow, Drake leaves reddening hickeys down the skin of his chest, and he scrapes his nails hard enough down Drake’s back that it must leave lines even through the shirt.

(It is a celebration; Drake’s ‘friends’ are there and the Super is all too physical, blatantly staking a claim like some sort of caveman. Somehow he and Drake end up out on a hidden corner of the roof, Drake on his knees but no less powerful for it; undoubtedly the winner, though Damian refuses to admit as much.)

It isn’t until it’s done that they both realize exactly what it _is_ they’ve done. Drake beats a hasty retreat back to the party, and Damian accompanies him only until the point where the Super — Connor; _Kon_ — looks at Drake with all the bewildered confusion of someone with too-powerful senses and at least a few massive hints as to what exactly they’ve just done. Luckily, Damian’s disappearance from events like these is hardly a novel thing, and with Grayson busy across the world (and sad he’d missed the gathering) no one comes looking for Damian for the rest of the night.

It’s simple enough to excuse, that time. He knows that Drake is, objectively, attractive to a fair amount of people. Pretty, is a word he’s heard used, though _he_ would never. It isn’t all that surprising, really, that energy of one kind might turn to another, given accidental cues. A simple mistake, that’s all it was. (A pleasurable mistake, but he reins that thought in hard and strangles it. He is hardly experienced on that front, so _anything_ would have been pleasurable; it is not a positive comment on Drake’s skill.)

Drake avoids him for weeks; staying with the Titans and not coming back to Gotham. Somewhere, in the pit of his chest, Damian is… offended. (Worried. He was not that _bad_ , surely?) If Drake is that ashamed, surely there are more direct ways to address it. It is not as if Damian is going to weep or profess some sort of undying love, just because of a night of sex. It is not _important_.

It takes longer than he would like for him to see Drake again, and then it is with his father beside them on a joint mission, so it’s hardly the appropriate time to bring such things up. Damian glares, frustrated with the skirting of the subject, and Drake ignores him with a sharp pointedness. Apparently it’s similar enough to their usual interactions that his father doesn’t notice anything, though he almost wishes that weren’t true. At least, if his father noticed something amiss, then there would be some sort of confrontation or recognition. Anything but the pretense hovering between him and Drake, as if nothing happened at all.

Drake speaks to him no more than necessary over the night, and Damian feels the frustration coiled tight in his gut when it bleeds into his fists. Nothing hard enough it can’t be excused away, he has better control than that, but there isn’t any mercy. Not tonight. Not from him.

If Drake wants to play a game of silence, then _fine_. He’ll _win_.

* * *

The three weeks it takes for Drake to approach him nearly drive Damian mad, but he endures what he must. (What does it matter if his mind circles in on itself, wondering with sharp, insidious edges if, maybe, he was really that disappointing? Disgusting? _Drake_ will never know what goes on in his mind, and he refuses to allow it to drive him to foolish action.)

It’s early in the before-morning hours when Drake reappears, intruding into the otherwise empty Cave. The others are already asleep, the house silent, but Damian has chosen to work out some of his growing madness on a punching bag, rather than give into the possibility of sleep quite yet. It’s actual effectiveness is questionable, but it keeps his body moving and his mind at a minimum of activity, so it is good enough.

He catches Drake’s entrance to the Cave out of the corner of his eye; follows the way he slinks (perhaps that part is Damian’s imagination, wanting it to be so) down the steps, but refuses to do more than give a single glance to acknowledge Drake’s presence before he returns to his workout. The bag shakes under the added force of Damian’s strikes; the only physical reaction he’ll allow himself. He will _not_ break first. Not in this.

Drake lingers for a moment at the bottom of the stairs, watching him, before crossing over to the computers instead. Damian allows himself a second glance then, with Drake’s back safely turned. He’s dressed in the looser, softer clothing that Damian knows serves as Drake’s sleeping clothes. A pair of checkered, black and red pants, and a far-too-large black shirt that his earlier glance told him has the Super’s symbol on front. Drake could at least make an _effort_ not to be quite so gauche about his relation to the clone; the symbol of ownership could not be more clear if Drake wore that symbol on his _face_.

Drake pulls something up on one of the smaller screens, dragging the large chair there—his _father’s_ chair—over in front of it to sit down. Damian glares at his back, and hits the bag especially hard, hard enough that his hand aches for a moment. Despite the mental similarities between them, he despises the reminder that Drake is, functionally, ahead of him in the vague line of succession that includes the past Robins. Grayson has taken the mantle of Batman once already, and though it _belongs_ to Damian, by right, he cannot quite deny that Drake may have some measure of claim to it as well. Not a large one, and certainly not one as good as _his_ claim, as he is _blood_ , but he has one nonetheless (and he is older, more experienced, more a _detective_ than any of the rest of those who might claim his father's throne).

Damian tries not to look at the way Drake lifts his legs into the chair, curling into the empty space that was made for a frame much larger than his. He is tempted to turn, to put his back to Drake so he can ignore him more effectively, but there is too much of him that doesn't want to put himself in a disadvantageous position in regards to Drake. He wants to be aware of every moment of movement. Not that he believes that Drake is a threat, exactly, but Damian still does not want to be caught unawares. No, he _refuses_ to be caught unawares. He cannot win the current competition between them if he allows Drake to catch him off guard.

The glances he takes, as time wears on, tell him that Drake is nearly completely still apart from the tap of his fingers. Unsurprising; when Drake falls into work, he tends to not move for hours at a time, depending on the level of concentration the work takes. (Another habit shared with Damian's father.) Odd for him to come down to work on something that might take hours when he is already in sleeping clothes however. Perhaps it was a moment of inspiration. (Then why not a laptop? Drake's is practically a miniature version of the main computer anyway.)

Eventually, Damian feels exhaustion weigh down his limbs, and reluctantly draws his routine down into a slower cool down period. He perhaps stays in that longer than he should, but Drake is hardly going to lecture him about it, and he is the only witness.

When he can stall no longer, Damian gives the bag one last punch and then turns to head to the showers. The hot water eases him loose again, and he simply lets it run over him for a minute, enjoying the heat and the slide of it down his back, before he works on getting clean. There's a mindless comfort to a good shower, and he takes the opportunity for what it is and relaxes as he rinses the sweat from his skin.

It shouldn't surprise him to step out and find Drake sitting on the benches outside, but it does. He strangles down his reaction, making himself calmly take the towel hung over the door of the shower and wrap it around his waist, tucking in the end with practiced ease, before lifting his gaze back to Drake's eyes. No longer averted, now that he's 'dressed' again. Drake stands, and Damian ignores the water dripping down his skin as he meets the challenge.

"You _would_ strike in moments of imagined vulnerability," he accuses, letting his mouth curl in a small sneer for a moment. "What do you want, Drake?"

Drake looks vaguely uncomfortable, and Damian takes that as a victory all on its own. He crosses his arms, and waits.

It takes another couple of seconds for Drake to apparently gather enough courage to speak, and even then his voice is quieter than usual. "I thought we should talk, about what happened."

Of course; Drake, for all his other failings, has never failed to strike at precisely the correct moments to take advantage of weakness, or disadvantage. It is… almost admirable, but he does _not_ appreciate it being used to attempt to force him into that disadvantaged role.

"Why?" Damian demands, lifting his chin a bit to stare down his nose at Drake. "You have been so keen on avoidance, why would you wish to change that now?"

"Because it needs to be talked about," is Drake's answer, eyes narrowing a bit, expression tightening. "Could you try, for once, to be even slightly cooperative? Look, what happened back then, it was… just a mistake, wasn’t it? Just some sort of strange physical response. It didn’t mean anything, right?"

A part of Damian rebels, violently, against the idea of having that encounter reduced to such a meaningless thing. He does not _want_ to forget their encounter, nor does he want to let Drake forget about it as he seems to intend to. "Why? Because you do not wish for it to have happened?" He sneers more openly. "I knew you were pathetic, but I did not imagine you to be so much of a coward, Drake. Events cannot be erased simply because you do not like that they happened."

“That isn’t what I— Damian, I’m just trying to resolve this, alright? What happened… shouldn’t have. You’ve been angrier with me than usual, and I just wanted to make sure you’re… alright, I guess.”

“I am an _adult_ ,” Damian reminds him, not bothering to even attempt to soften the sharp tone of his voice. “And I am not interested in assuaging whatever guilty conscious you’ve invented. If that is all you wanted, _leave_.”

He turns on one heel, heading for the lockers and his store of clothes.

Behind him, he hears Drake take a deep breath, and the soft tap of bare footsteps following him. “Okay, fine. If you don’t want it erased, and you don’t want to talk about it, what _do_ you want?”

Damian tries not to slam the door of his locker open; he even mostly succeeds. “You could start with _acknowledgement_ ,” he snaps, looking over his shoulder for a moment to glare. Then it’s not enough, and he turns around, taking a step forward to push into Drake’s personal space and look down at him. “You _will not_ ignore me, Drake. What occurred between us _happened_ , and no matter what you think of it I will not allow you to erase the fact that it did.”

Drake holds his gaze, and all of a sudden the guilt and the uncertainty is gone and flattens out into an expression Damian knows too well. Studying, calculating, _picking apart_ until Drake inevitably finds whatever he's looking for. _Not_ an expression or an interest he has ever wanted pointed in his direction.

"Why does that matter to you?" Drake demands, voice gone as sharp as his look, but _cold_ in the way that Drake's interest always starts. "Why are you invested in making sure I remember?"

He hides behind a scoff and a flash of his teeth, as he steps back. "I will _not_ be forgotten," he snaps, before he turns away and to the locker so he can collect a set of clothing from inside its depths. He does _not_ do it to avoid the piercing focus of Drake's eyes.

But Drake steps forward, circling around to his side, studying him. "Why?" is snapped right back at him. "Why does it matter to you if I ignore what happened between us? Why do you care so much about it?"

"That's not your business," is probably the worst thing that he could have said, but he doesn't recognize that until he's already snarled it, slamming the locker shut and facing Drake down once more, dropping the clothes off on one of the benches to the side. "Leave it alone, Drake," isn't much better, but at least it's something.

"You won't _let_ me, remember?" Drake's voice is a biting, cool thing as he says, "You want me to remember, but it's not my business why? Not good enough; give me a reason. Tell me why you care." Drake's eyes narrow a little further, and Damian tries not to shrink away from being the focus of all that attention. The only person that his grandfather respects as much as Father, and sometimes the reason is plain enough for anyone to see; Drake's mind is a sharp, _vicious_ thing. "Is that it? Do you _care?_ "

"No!" he denies, but a distant part of his mind knows (and is terrified to know) that Drake will not give in without an answer. Not now.

"You obviously care about something to do with it. No idea what Talia taught you about sex but it can't possibly have been healthy; not a surprise that you've got issues with this just like everything else." Damian takes in a breath but Drake bulldozes over him, continuing, "It can't just be pride. Not even you're arrogant enough to demand that someone remember something that you hate or that was embarrassing for you. You'd have to have enjoyed at least something about it, and—”

Damian doesn't know exactly why he does it, but he does know that he wants Drake to _stop talking_ before he follows that line of reasoning to places that aren't remotely correct. (Not even a little, not at _all_.) But suddenly his mouth is on Drake's and he's shoving him back against the lockers, venting anger and frustration and _panic_ into the clash of mouths. Drake makes a shocked sound, hands grabbing onto his arms, but that's a vast improvement over Drake trying to pick apart his behavior and Drake's mouth is hot and yielding and he maybe enjoys the touch. Until it _isn't_ yielding, and Drake is pushing up against him and dragging him down in the same movement, fingers digging into his arms and teeth grazing over his lips.

He wraps a hand in Drake's hair, dragging him up onto his toes to make the angle easier and Drake _bites_ him for it, teeth sinking into his lower lip for a moment and then following it with a tongue when he gasps on reflex. Nails scrape down his arms and he can't help the exhaled, breathy sound that he gives, muffled between them but still audible. He swallows away the next, caught by the feeling of Drake's tongue in his mouth, trying and mostly failing to engage it in anything but the most clumsy of touches.

When the kiss breaks he's breathless, and it takes a moment for him to suck in a sharp breath and try to fix that. His fingers loosen their grips, eyes slowly opening to look down. Drake is looking up at him, eyes wide and—

_Drake_.

Damian jerks back, wrenching free of the loose hands still curled around his biceps, his own eyes widening in turn. Drake startles and glances down, and then his eyebrows rise towards his hair and Damian looks down in turn. It occurs to him just a moment before he sees it that he is fresh from the shower, and he is no longer holding nor can he feel the towel around his waist. Which would be because it's _not there_. It's sitting in a puddle on the ground, just in front of Drake.

He can feel his cheeks start to heat, mortification striking him mute as he takes a hasty step back, fight or flight responses rising sharply to the forefront of his mind. His current nudity convinces him, quickly, that 'fight' is not a viable answer. So that leaves only one path for him to take, and panic drives him to it as he takes one more step back and then hurries out, only barely managing to remember to grab his clothes from the bench as he doesn't-quite-run past.

There's a call of, "Damian!" behind him, but he ignores it and the sound of following footsteps, tugging into his tank-top as he heads for the elevator and wishing that the clothes he'd retrieved were a little more covering and a little less made for sleep. (And that he had the coordination to almost-run, ascend the stairs to the manor entrance, and get into the pair of boxers all at once. Since he cannot, he must forgo the last task to make sure he doesn't fail at the first two.)

(He'll have to hack in and delete the video before Father sees it. Being half-naked and chased across the Cave by Drake is _not_ an experience he wishes anyone else to witness.)

The elevator opens at his approach, thankfully, and he slips inside and hits the button to close it and ascend, and he pointedly does _not_ look at Drake, even though he can see him approaching out of the corner of his eye. The door shuts before Drake reaches him, starts to rise, and Damian lets his breath come out in a harsh exhalation. It takes him a moment to remember to struggle into his boxers before the doors open again; the less video he has to wipe out, the better.

The house is as silent as it was when Damian decided to go down to work out his frustrations; before the hour Pennyworth rises but after the rest of them are all firmly asleep, barring complications. He can't quite run to his room, not with that in mind, but he creeps through the house as quickly as he can. The only thing worse than being caught up to by Drake would be waking his family so they can all be witness to the humiliation firsthand. Father is here of course, as are Grayson, Pennyworth, and Cain. He _believes_ Todd left again before patrol ended, but sometimes he sticks around a night or two. (The _last_ person he wants as a witness is Todd, even with the slow truce that's come between them over the years.)

He shuts the door to his room as quietly as he can, and then makes a beeline for his laptop. He has to delete that video before anyone else has even a chance to see it. Father will see it's been deleted, but if Damian makes no attempt to hide the fact that he did so, perhaps it will be ignored. (Hopefully there is no surveillance in the locker room itself. Hopefully what he has done has not been caught on tape. And he does not know _why_ he did it, still. He should not have. He— It was a mistake. It has _all_ been a mistake.)

He's only half into the systems of the Bat-cave when there's the scrape-click noise of the doorknob, and he realizes with a sharp, surging swell of that same panic from before that he didn't lock his door. He turns, pushing out of his chair as he faces the door with the intent to rush it, hold it closed no matter how juvenile of a response, but it's already opening. He takes a step forward anyway, but Drake is through the door and closing it again before he can move any more than that. This time, the lock clicks.

His tongue feels frozen, and Drake approaches with a quick step, fast enough that Damian steps back out of reflex, the back of his thighs hitting the edge of the desk. He swallows, wanting to shift to the side but Drake is already there, standing in front of him and keeping him in place with presence, if not physical touch.

"Why did you do that?" Drake demands, without any preamble.

Damian bares his teeth on instinct, refusing to show the nerves gathering in his stomach. "Did you find it so distracting you felt the need to chase me into my very _bedroom?_ "

"Did you find it good enough you had to run away?" Drake counters, gaze still that studying, all too piercing thing. "Why did you kiss me, Damian?"

For a moment, he freezes. Then he shakes it off and scoffs instead, lifting his chin an inch. "Your voice and assumptions were irritating, and I doubted you could speak with your mouth occupied. Do not put meaning where there was none, Drake."

There's a flash of irritation in Drake's eyes, but it cools again before there’s a matter of fact, "Right. Well you're not any good at it. You could try to do a little more than just smashing your face into mine, you know."

He can feel the flush that spreads to his cheeks, and he curls his hands to fists to try and hide it as anger instead of the digging, vaguely sickening embarrassment. "Well, I do not have the practice you have obviously amassed, and I do not _throw_ myself at anyone available just to gain it, as you clearly do. Does your _clone_ kiss well, Drake? What about Brown? Your speedster? The pretender Amazon?"

Drake’s expression hardens for a moment before he says, "If you're trying to make me ashamed, you're not managing it. I’m not ashamed of enjoying the touch of my friend. You can think what you want, but I’d take having and enjoying regular, casual sex over being a frustrated, pent-up virgin like you any day."

"I’m— Just because I am not some _harlot_ like you—”

Drake steps forward, almost up against him, cutting him off with presence and a pointed, "You can't kiss for shit, Damian, and shutting someone up by _kissing_ them is not your usual tactic anyway." Drake lifts a hand, pushes it against the center of his chest and adds, "You're obsessed with what happened at that party for reasons you're apparently too ashamed or too unwilling to look at closely enough to figure out, so there's something more going on with this than you're admitting."

He swallows, wanting to back up a step but there's nowhere to go. Drake is… too close. Too focused. Too _observant_. (Too correct.) "It is not your business," he says, but his voice is not as certain as he would like.

"It involves my mouth," is the instant retaliation, "so yeah, I think it is. Now answer my question, Damian. _Why_ did you kiss me down there?"

Damian grits his teeth together, feeling the press of Drake's fingers through his shirt, the brush of skin against his where one is high enough to be over the neckline of the tank. It is… He doesn't know what to do with that sensation. He doesn't know what to do with this closeness, or the way Drake is staring at him, demanding an answer with narrowed gaze and deliberate, pressing posture. Only barely far enough away to not be touching him anywhere but that hand. Those… long, thin fingers, and the _strength_ he knows is in them.

Something bubbles up in his chest, and he feels his breathing speed, feels his cheeks flush further. He doesn't— He is not sure—

The memory of Drake pressing him into a wall comes unbidden to his mind, the heat in blue eyes as their mouths met, as Drake slid a hand between his thighs and _squeezed_. He remembers wet heat and the tangle of hair around his fingers, the friction of damp flesh against his, the _pleasure_.

Drake sighs, and his voice holds an edge of something all too close to disappointment when he presses, "Damian, _answer me_.”

This _thing_ rises up his throat; nerves and embarrassment and hatred of that edge of disappointment. Damian tries to pull back, but the desk at his back does not allow him to, and the most he can manage is to move in a sharp burst and shove Drake’s hand off his chest. “What does it matter to you, Drake?” he demands, avoiding his own answer. _Unsure_ of his own answer.

But then Drake is shifting forward, leaning up and offering, “Because you’re no _good_ at it,” and hands take his face, pull it down and—

And Drake is kissing him. A brush of lips that is only barely like the collision from downstairs, with the hands on his face guiding him into it even as he stays frozen, unsure of what to do or if he even _should_. One slides into his hair as Drake presses close, lining up against him and pressing him back against the desk, before he is pulled _down_. His back and shoulders curve almost without his permission, and the grip tightens in his hair as teeth graze over his bottom lip, bite down softly, but hard enough to make him gasp. He does not know what else to do with his hands but to grip the edge of the desk, wood digging hard enough into his hands to hurt, as he shivers under the slide of a thumb across his cheek.

Drake draws back then, and Damian opens his eyes when the hand in his hair doesn’t loosen, and yet no other touch comes. Drake is still close, close enough for his breath to be hot against Damian’s skin, and for Damian to see the studying, cool edge to his gaze.

"I don't know if it's your messed up way of trying to compete with me, or some hormonal issue, or just some weird need to turn any kind of physical contact into a fight,” Drake says then, in a low murmur, “but whatever is going on in your head I am not letting you try to eat my face every time you can't deal with it. If you ever do it again, you're going to do it _right_."

And then, suddenly, Drake is pulling hard at his hair and stepping back, pulling him along with.

Damian can't quite help the startled sound that leaves his throat, or the way one hand goes to Drake's wrist and grips it tight as he is dragged across the room by the grip. He could stop this, he could end it with a single sharp twist, but he doesn't quite think to until Drake has pushed him over against the bed and pressed him _down,_ onto his back. He doesn't even think to until Drake is on top of him, hand curling around the back of his neck, and by then he feels frozen once again, pinned by presence much more than touch.

Drake leans down over him, thumb sliding along the side of his neck. “You want to do this? Then you’re going to learn _how_.”

Damian feels his breath catch, but before he can fully process all the implications of that statement Drake is pulling him into a kiss, lifting his head off the bed to do so. The strong press of fingers at the back of his skull captures his attention for a moment, but only until Drake's lips slide across his, lighting nerves in a way he doesn't quite recognize. It's a brush more than true contact, and he finds himself reaching for Drake, curling fingers around the muscle of his biceps to ground himself. More muscle than anyone outside the family would believe, because Drake is so much _smaller_ than the rest of them. Small, compact, but _powerful_.

A tongue slides along his bottom lip, teasing and he finds himself shivering, his fingers contracting as he tries to process the sensation against the knowledge that it is _Drake_ kneeling above him. But though that thought lingers, he cannot seem to summon the will to toss his predecessor away from him, or to do anything but hang on as Drake kisses him more deeply, pressing down into him and letting his head drop back down to the bed. He sucks in a sharp breath at the teeth that graze his lip, remembering the bite, remembering the _feeling_ , but it is entirely eclipsed as Drake's weight settles down over his hips, free hand dropping down and cupping him through his boxers.

The way he whimpers makes him flush with shame, but Drake gives a low groan in answer and then those fingers are sliding past the waistband and wrapping around his cock itself. He bucks up and Drake's weight forces him back down, fingers squeezing with enough intent to make him gasp and twist against the bed, halfway to overwhelmed from the feeling of another's hand on him.

Then Drake's tongue is sliding into his mouth. Brief, sliding along the top of his own tongue before withdrawing, like a tease. He tries to chase, but closed teeth and a stroke of the hand on him stops him in his tracks, pulling his back into a small arch as he grips Drake's biceps a little bit harder. It's an unfamiliar touch, a fantasy he's never dared to admit to come to life, including Drake's presence. (But only recently, never before— He didn't think of this _before_.)

He has thought of others before, but never followed through. Never truly _wanted_ to. (And he is not sure he wants to now, but it is good and he is not _stopping_ Drake, perhaps does not want to stop him any more than he wishes the sensation of being stroked to stop.)

Drake’s free hand comes to rest on his jaw, tilting his head down and pulling him to the right angle to be kissed again, and this time the intrusion of his tongue is more insistent, laying claim to his mouth in a way that Damian doesn’t know how to deny. Proprietary, as though Drake is simply taking what already belongs to him and ignoring his lack of adequate response in the face of it. Damian can only give muffled sounds into Drake’s mouth as the hand on him picks up pace, stroking with purpose and clear skill.

His fingers curl down Drake’s arms, nails blunt and not doing any real damage in his attempt to vent or pause the pleasure slicing up his spine, coiling at the base of it. He tries to say something, but his attempts come out muffled and incomprehensible. Drake does not stop, does not give him any leeway to breathe or withdraw from the edge, and so he falls off it.

He cries out into the kiss, bucking up into Drake’s touch as the release takes him, shaking him down to his bones and drawing him into a small arch beneath its strength. His toes dig into the sheets, and as his neck arches back the kiss is broken. The moan he gives _does not_ come out as Drake’s name; he refuses to believe it. He pants, trying to slow his breathing, trying to draw away from the fog of pleasure that wants to linger and shroud his mind.

The fingers sliding away, brushing now intensely sensitive skin, draw a small jerk from him, and he fights the urge to make some sound of denial as Drake pulls away, shaking off his grip. When he looks down, Drake is climbing off him, standing beside the bed and wiping off his hand on one leg of his pants. It leaves a smear along the black and red fabric. Damian does his best to shake off the remaining haze in his veins, pushing up to sitting in an effort to feel less vulnerable in front of Drake, less _exposed_ now that he is alone on the bed and—

Drake leans down and takes his jaw, pulling him into another kiss. Lips over his, tongue slipping in as he inhales, fingers tilting his chin up and holding him at a better angle— And then gone again, pulling away before he can figure out how to respond.

Damian opens his eyes and looks up, finding Drake’s gaze as a thumb swipes over his chin, up to his lips. Drake hooks it over his bottom lip for a moment, before murmuring, “If you start this again, I hope you learned at least a _little_ bit. Try some finesse next time.”

“I would not learn such a thing from _you_ ,” Damian manages, though he does not think he actually believes it.

By the look Drake gives him, and the way he lets go, turns, walks out without another word, Drake does not believe it either.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)

It is not the last time that he and Drake come together, not by far. At first it's on the heels of arguments or tension, once they're away from the rest of the family or in some hidden corner where no one else will see. Drake tends to make the first move, physically, but Damian knows that how he presses, and how he reacts, is inviting the attention. He is… thankful, for Drake's forwardness, because he doesn't know how else to get what he wants. And he _does_ find himself wanting.

Damian hadn't quite realized beforehand how _much_ they argue, but now that there is more to it than just the argument itself he's wondering whether this was always the case, or whether he is unconsciously picking more fights in search of that outcome.

Despite the fact that it is Drake engaging with him — and he refuses to admit that it is more likely _because_ it is Drake — he does find himself learning. Soon enough he can actually respond when Drake kisses him, and he no longer stalls out in the midst of an encounter, uncertain of what he is expected or allowed to do. Then he begins to reciprocate, when it occurs to him to find shame in the knowledge that Drake is taking him apart, and walking away unaffected in return. It seems utterly unacceptable for him to be rendered vulnerable while Drake stays completely in control, so he takes steps to fix that.

Drake seems surprised, at first. Damian takes it as a victory. He has very few of those in this arena, given his lack of experience and skill, so even a minor victory is worth noting.

First it is only hands, then grinding, and finally Drake puts his mouth to use. It's that, finally, that brings Damian to a halt once again. He does not know _how_ to do such a thing, and the idea of trying without having that knowledge is… daunting. Still, the thought of allowing Drake to best him, to do more than he is willing to attempt, eats at him.

When he goes to Drake, in the middle of the day and after he has spent the entire morning trying to gather the courage, it still takes him several moments before he manages to grind out, "I— I would like you to teach me how to… perform oral sex. If you are willing."

Despite his fears, Drake does not laugh at him, or mock. There's a moment of silent consideration, and then Drake agrees, expression betraying nothing but that acceptance. Damian… doesn't know what to make of that, entirely, but he shoves the thought aside. He does not _care_ what Drake thinks of their arrangement, no matter the strange hint of disappointment in his gut as he notes the lack of enthusiasm in response to his request. (It does not _matter_. He is asking a favor of Drake when he has no right to; why should there be any enthusiasm for such a thing?)

Things… continue. Their fights wane somewhat, as Damian becomes attuned to the way Drake looks at him when there is an invitation to share time, and learns how to accept that invitation without having to actually voice that acceptance. He finds it to be easier that way, and by the way that Drake eases somewhat in reaction to the lessening of their arguments, so does he. It becomes an easy, convenient way to bleed the tension out of his shoulders, and Drake never seems to run out of things to fine tune in his technique. It is… enjoyable, even past the learning experience.

He refuses to admit such a thing out loud, but Drake is… pleasant company. It is not such a horrible thing when Drake stays with him afterward, skin warm against his and breath still uneven from the release shared between them. He can allow Drake to linger for a few minutes, to rest beside him, even to build him up again to a harder, more intense round, if the mood exists. Drake's praise, when he does something right, or pleasurably surprising, warms his chest in a way similar and yet altogether different from the praise of Grayson, or his father. He still ends up desiring more.

Drake takes him another step then, teaching him the mechanics of how two men can engage in intercourse together. It's strange to him, but undeniably pleasurable, and that becomes yet another thing for Drake to instruct him in. How to touch, how to prepare, the importance of safety... The first time that Drake lets him fully take the lead, the sounds and expressions that he makes are so captivating that Damian finds himself hardly able to breathe, let alone think. Watching Drake's pleasure becomes a sudden, sharp fixation.

It's at that point that Damian realizes that something, somewhere, has gone horribly wrong.

Damian has felt out of control plenty of times in his life. When he was new to the role of Robin, and then to leadership of the Teen Titans. When he fought his own clone to protect Grayson and fell short of victory. Every time his stupidly hormonal body struck in his earlier teenage years and made him thankful for the cup in his suit. And yet, he has never felt quite so out of control as when he realizes that this _thing_ he shares with Drake, this meeting of bodies and sharing of touch, has somehow become more than simply a quick way to release tension under pleasure and learn things that he does not know.

Somewhere along the line, and Damian has a difficult time pinpointing _where_ , this all became far too serious. He thought he had all this in hand. Drake was never supposed to be more than — at best — an ally. He did not account — _could_ not account — for the sensation of having Drake at his back, or the clever press of his mouth, or the too-fond _feelings_ that have begun to twist in his chest anytime he finds Drake asleep in some corner or another.

He thinks, perhaps, in some horrible twist of fate, he has begun to _care_ for Drake. And he knows it is only a matter of time until Drake discovers that. He— He _cannot_ hide something like this from someone with as great a mind as Drake. He doesn't know how.

He has to stop all of this. Now. Perhaps if he cuts ties quickly enough then Drake will never have the chance to know, and he will not have to face the disgust that reaction will surely bring. Drake does not, _will not_ , care in return and even entertaining the notion is ridiculous.

Drake's preferences in true relationships is clear enough, and Damian is neither blonde nor female.

He will... miss, these encounters. He will possibly even miss interacting with Drake in a manner not solely about competition, but if that is the price he must pay to avoid ridicule, so be it. He has learned enough, after all. His next, doubtlessly more acceptable interest will benefit from this tutoring, if he ever finds such a person.

He is aware that it's cowardly, but he takes the easiest route out and sends Drake a simple message informing him that things are done. Then, he commits himself to only being around Drake when others are there as well, which is easier than it might have been before. After all, now he knows most of Drake's schedule, favorite places to spend time, and general habits. Avoiding all of that, and refusing to allow Drake to corner him in any of the places he would normally lay an ambush, is not as difficult as he feared it might be.

At least, not until he comes to his room one night, after patrol, and Drake is waiting inside to shut the door behind him and trap them together. He startles more openly than he would like. (The door was _locked_ , his alarms still in full effect.)

"I'd like an explanation," is the flat demand, as Drake steps in front of the door and blocks his easiest escape route. There are others, but they are… less dignified. More desperate.

It takes a moment of forcing himself to calm, and to think his response through, before he answers, "I learned what I needed from you, and decided it was time to end our arrangement. Was my message not clear enough for you?”

Drake’s eyes narrow, arms crossing over his chest. “I think I deserve a little more than a text message.” His voice curls with disapproval, with something that sounds almost like disappointment. Damian nearly cringes from the tone alone.

“Why?” he asks, letting his voice snap to hide that moment of weakness. “Our dealings were nothing more than business; should I have announced it to the family instead? Perhaps composed a ballad?”

“Don’t take this to extremes, Damian. You know perfectly well that there were better ways to end what we had that didn’t involve any sort of humiliation or publicity.” Drake’s words come across as a clear warning, and Damian can’t quite stop the flush that heats his cheeks for how _true_ it is. “I did you a favor; I _taught_ you. At the least, you owe me both a thank you and something a little more personal than some words on a screen.”

“This was not _personal_ ,” he quickly defends, unwilling to let this be mistaken in _any_ way as something more than the casual arrangement he’s making it out to be. (Drake _cannot_ think any differently.) Crossing his own arms in response comes more naturally. “I do not owe you a thing, Drake. We did nothing of importance.”

For a moment, Damian almost thinks he sees a twist in Drake’s expression that looks like hurt, but then it hardens, gaze turning as cold as the ice Drake’s eyes always make him think of. “I really don’t know why I expected anything resembling decency from you,” are the next words that come, lower and biting, as Drake’s hands tighten their grip on his own arms. “The next time you need a favor, Damian, don’t come to me. I don’t do _business_ with al Ghuls.”

The words freeze Damian in place, even as Drake turns and walks out. The fact that he doesn’t slam the door almost feels worse than if he had.

It takes Damian another long few breaths to shake away how that accusation makes him feel. How it... _hurts_.

* * *

Drake doesn't speak to him for the next month. If there is a shared patrol Drake always has a reason not to attend, even when he is in Gotham itself, which is rare. Most of his time is spent with the Teen Titans, and away from anything that might result in them actually being forced together for something. Even his attempts to begin some sort of argument are met with a refusal to so much as look at him, let alone respond.

It gets to the point where all the rest of the family is clearly aware, though not attempting to interfere. (Grayson tries to bring it up, but Damian shuts the line of conversation down before it can get started, and that seems to end it, albeit with some reluctance on Grayson’s part.)

Damian isn’t prepared for how much it… unsettles him. Anger he would have been prepared to handle, but this utter refusal to even acknowledge his existence gets beneath his skin in a way he didn't think anything but Alfred’s disappointment could.

Father does nothing more than announce to them both, once, not to let 'it' affect efficiency in the field. Alfred looks like he wants to say more than that, but for some reason he doesn't, and Damian decides not to question why. To give an opening like that would be to invite a lecture, at the least, and probably enough shame to curdle in his gut and make him wish to fix whatever caused Alfred to give the lecture to begin with.

Not that he does not _desire_ to fix this thing with Drake, whatever exactly it is, but that would mean having to apologize and there are few things that are as hard for him to do as that. He cannot fathom having any sort of an audience if he does, and Drake refuses to be alone with him, which does not leave him any option that he’s remotely comfortable with. It’s easier to just accept the new order of things, and stop trying to interact.

(He does his best to ignore how the pit of his stomach feels progressively more twisted in on itself the longer the silence continues.)

The first time that they are once again forced to work together is in a country-wide situation a month and a half past Damian’s ending of their arrangement. The attack has hit most major cities across the United States, courtesy of one of the many ‘leagues’ of villains that has banded together to attempt to circumvent the might of the Justice League and it's accompanying teams. The purpose of the attack isn't quite known yet, but their objective is simple enough. Defeat the gathered villains and the smaller gangs that have followed them, and keep collateral damage and the loss of innocent lives to a minimum. As usual.

Father himself leaves to provide support for a different city, but the rest of their family is left to keep Gotham safe, spreading out to surround and keep contained the attackers. Somehow in the rush Damian finds himself fighting alongside Drake, separated from the other pairs that have made a rough circle around the attackers and (unfortunately) far enough away from any of them that he cannot surreptitiously swap partners, though the thought occurs to him.

He can hear the chatter of the others in his ears, warnings as well as the mix of Gordon and Grayson's commands, but Drake reminds silent, and he doesn't quite dare to break that silence himself. (The rest of them are still _listening,_ and turning off his com in the middle of a fight like this would be a foolish thing to do, even if it is tempting.)

Though he does his best not to stare, Damian still cannot help but watch how very smooth Drake's form is. An easy, precise flow of movement, capitalizing on fast, pinpoint strikes to make up for his somewhat smaller size. His staff is a whirl of silver around his arms and back, and it leaves more than a few of the lowlifes down for the count with little more than a single strike. Drake hardly needs to use his full skill for these pawns, but still the grace of it all is impressive to watch.

That distraction is the reason why Damian — gaze sweeping over the surrounding area as he once again pulls it away from Drake — is the first to see the incoming rocket, originating from high on one of the surrounding buildings. His mind tracks the angle without permission, pinpointing the point of impact at _all_ too close to where Drake is still involved with a few opponents, back turned to its path.

Damian is moving before he even fully finishes processing options, raising his grapnel to fire into the building next to Drake and letting it yank him across the street. Drake sees him coming in exactly enough time to _not_ hit him with the arc of his staff, and Damian extends his free arm to hook around Drake’s waist and drag him along, not trusting Drake to take his hand without explanation.

“Incoming!” he snaps, to forestall any struggling, as he disengages the grapnel, twists to pull Drake in against his chest, and lets them both crash through one of the windows.

The impact against the floorboards, and of Drake half on top of him, is enough to drive the air out of his lungs with a grunt. He catalogs the building automatically — dusty, abandoned, furniture draped with cloth, but perhaps once an apartment? — as they roll, both coming up on toes and fingertips as training has ensured. Damian grabs the end of his cape, spinning to drag it up and in front of Drake, not a moment before the rocket hits the street just outside of the building.

Drake pulls closer to him, sheltering beneath the reinforced fabric as the explosion blows out what little of the window remained, as well as a good portion of the wall around it. Damian ducks his head and weathers the feeling of the blast at his back and the bits of debris impacting it, gritting his teeth.

Then there’s a terrible, splintering, _cracking_ sound, and Damian has just enough time to feel one moment of sharp horror before the floor gives out under them.

The impact this time is rougher, Drake trapped half underneath him when they hit what feels like concrete next to the pieces of the floor that gave beneath them. Drake hisses in pain, before grabbing him by one arm and yanking him to the side; he doesn’t resist, which is maybe the only thing that saves him a nasty concussion. Drake drags him to the side, up against a similarly concrete wall, as the building crashes down around them. Instinct has him shield Drake — smaller, theoretically more fragile than he is — with his own body, but it proves unnecessary.

When the building settles, both of them are untouched. The air is full of dust — Drake sneezes _hard_ against his chest as Damian shifts back — but when he looks over his shoulder the debris is mostly above them, held up by several long beams that have fallen across the top of where they’ve fallen; what looks to be some sort of basement. The materials of the original floor are scattered around, and half of the basement is blocked off by the parts of the building that have fallen through the area not blocked by those beams. They have roughly a ten by four foot area free of any larger bits of debris. Light is getting through from several cracks, enough to mostly see, but he doesn’t see any immediately obvious exit.

Drake shoves him back a step, and then slips away from his protective closeness.

The building is still creaking and groaning above them, settling with all of the sounds of instability and old, or perhaps originally flawed, materials and construction. Drake peers up at the mess of debris barely held up by the beams, sneezes again at one of the trickles of dust that’s coming down, and moves on to poke at the piles blocking the other half of the basement.

Then there’s an irritated sigh, and Drake raises a hand and fiddles with his com, snapping, “Red Robin here.”

Damian does his best not to twitch at the echo of it in his own ear, or the silence in the chatter that follows as the rest of their teams wait for Drake’s update.

“I’m here with Robin; a rocket came down near us and a building came down on top of us. We’re fine, we’ve got light so we’ve got airflow, but the debris looks pretty unstable and I’d rather not tempt it if you’ve got this in hand.” Drake’s hands brace on his hips, back turned to him, staff — Damian now notices — lost somewhere in the fall. “What’s the update?”

Grayson’s voice comes through after a moment. _“It looks like we’ve got this to me. Oracle?”_

 _“Confirmed,”_ Gordon answers, though she sounds slightly distracted. _“We should be able to handle this with who we’ve got left, no problem. Are you sure you two are safe?”_

Drake doesn’t wait for Damian to offer an answer, just gives a short, “Yes.” Then he adds, “If you could send someone with a little more strength to dig us out once this is settled, that would be best. Safest that way.”

_“Will do. Let me know if anything changes, Red.”_

“Will do. Good luck, everyone.”

There’s another few moments of silence after that, before Todd yells some sort of warning and the chatter starts up again with Gordon ordering the pairs to spread out and fill the hole created. Damian frowns in the vague direction of Drake’s back, tuning out the chatter as best he can.

He lifts one hand, disabling the the outgoing com link before he says, “You could have asked before you made that decision for both of us. I would prefer to be part of the battle rather than hide within some basement.”

Drake doesn’t answer. Doesn’t look at him.

It’s then that Damian remembers, with the same uncomfortable, twisting feeling that he has each time he does, that Drake isn’t speaking to him. Isn’t even acknowledging his existence. And apparently, this has done nothing to change that, even though he (debatably) saved Drake’s life.

Drake moves, shifting to lean against one wall and begin to check inventory, opening and counting the contents of the pouches and hidden pockets built into the suit he wears. Standard procedure, but still something in Damian’s chest aches at the sight, and the lack of even a glance in his direction. It’s as if Damian isn’t even there.

He— He’s so _sick_ of all this. He’s sick of how his stomach twists up whenever Drake is near, of the guilt and the shame that he’s been attempting to ignore, of how he _misses_ Drake’s voice and the weight of his gaze, however unwelcome it sometimes is. He just wants it to be over, and perhaps… perhaps whatever he has to do to make that happen, so be it.

It still takes him several breaths, and a hard swallow, before he manages to say, “I— I am sorry.”

Drake’s head lifts to look at him. He can’t fully gauge Drake’s expression, given the mask hiding it, but what he can read off the parts of his face that are exposed is flat. Waiting.

Damian pulls his own gaze away, arms crossing in an attempt to feel a bit less vulnerable. “I… should not have ended things like I did,” he admits, haltingly. “What you taught me was… valuable. Important. I should not have said it wasn’t.”

There’s silence, and Damian feels his chest draw tight again in the face of that lack of response. Then Drake finally speaks, with a sharp, “Then why did you?”

That forces him to pause, to glance at Drake — now fully focused on him, expression tighter, almost angry — before yanking his gaze away. “Why does it matter?” he asks, defensively. “It’s done. I’ve apologized. Is that not enough?”

He hears a disbelieving snort, a hard exhale of breath, and then Drake snaps, “ _No_ , it’s not enough. I shared something with you, Damian. I— You owe me an explanation. A _real_ one this time. Why did you shut it all down like that? Tell me the truth.”

Damian tightens his grip, turns his head further away in an attempt to hide his expression, should it be betraying more than he thinks. “I am not looking for a renewal of it, Drake, only a move past this… this _silence_. The reasons are not important.”

His gaze snaps up when he hears footsteps, but surprise stills him for long enough that Drake gets a hand on the center of his chest and pushes him back, up against one of the walls that span their temporary prison. “They’re important to _me_. Now tell me _why_.”

The press of Drake’s hand pins him in place, refusing to allow him to withdraw unless he does so by shoving Drake back, and he cannot bring himself to. He cannot push Drake away yet again when he may never be able to fix such a thing. _This_ he may still be able to fix. _This_ he has been given a way to fix, if he only says the right thing. The truth. (And maybe that truth will damn him as well but at least things will be in the open, right? At least Drake will have to _acknowledge_ him in some way, won’t he?)

His breath comes faster, heart thudding beneath his chest as Drake stares at him, watches him, unyielding and strong in all the ways that Damian cannot help but respect (and be _frightened_ of). The gathering words stick in his throat, clamp his mouth shut. What if he loses Drake entirely? What if he’s laughed at? What if Drake is disgusted by his weakness?

How can he risk this? How can he let the explanation out knowing that Drake may shun him for it? How— How can he bare himself that thoroughly and trust to _mercy?_ Drake _does not_ care.

“ _Damian_ —”

“Because it mattered!” is what bursts from his throat, and then he cannot seem to _stop_. “It mattered. _You_ mattered, and I— I could not— _You_ did not care. It did not matter to you like it did to me and I was—” His teeth grit, words seizing in his throat again, refusing to admit that _fear_. The fear that Drake will turn this on him like a _blade_. “Your tastes are clear enough and I do not fit them,” he manages to snap, finally gathering the will to lift an arm and shove Drake’s hand off his chest. Drake is staring at him, mouth slightly parted. After a moment of silence, as his stomach and throat draw even tighter, he finds enough breath to demand, “Is that sufficient? Are we done?”

For some reason, against all his expectations (laughter, mocking, _hatred_ ), the first thing Drake says is a stunned sounding, “What the hell do you know about my _tastes?_ ”

Damian pushes back against the wall, lowers his chin and looks away, trying to create space that doesn’t exist. “I am not blonde nor am I female,” he says, though the words grate against his throat on the way up, make him _ache_ for a reason he doesn’t want to look at too closely. “Your past relationships are clear enough about your preferences and I am nothing like them.”

There’s a hard beat of silence.

“Are you talking about— about Steph and _Cassie?_ ” Drake steps back, a hand rising and then falling before it actually does anything. “Oh my _god_.” Drake huffs a somehow _angry_ laugh, hands bracing against his hips once again. “You know, thanks for reminding me that you are a massively, emotionally stunted _idiot_. For a while there I was actually expecting you to behave like a normal human being but _wow_ that was apparently unbelievably stupid of me.”

Damian bristles, fingers curling halfway into fists as he spits, “I am _not_ —”

“ _You_ don’t get to just decide what I’m interested in!” Drake snaps back, cutting him off. “First off, if I didn’t find you at least a _little_ attractive I would never have agreed to teach you in the first place, and secondly— Secondly—”

Damian blinks, staring down at Drake as he glares up, apparently at a loss for words. Or perhaps just unable to formulate them under the sharp, short breaths he’s taking; the clearest sign apart from the flash of his teeth that Drake is _angry_.

But then Drake is stepping forward with a snapped, “Oh, to _hell_ with it,” and grabbing both sides of his face, _yanking_ him down.

For a fraction of a second Damian panics, considering headbutts or distraction for a knee to the chest or anything _painful_ , but then Drake’s mouth is on his, teeth against his lip, and he freezes up for an entirely different reason. One of Drake's hands grips his hair while the other flattens against his chest, shoving him into the wall as Drake presses closer, demanding his reaction with firm touch and the flick of a tongue along his lip to sooth the pressure of teeth. Damian can’t help but to give Drake what he wants, his hands coming to grip Drake’s shoulders, fingers curling into the heavy material of the cape and his eyes finally sliding shut. He leans into it, easing the grip of fingers through his hair as he bridges the distance between their heights and lets Drake drop back down off his toes.

The hand on his chest slides up, coming back to curl into his hair and then pull him back, breaking the connection of their mouths. Damian opens his eyes just in time to see Drake shake his head, teeth biting at his own lower lip for a moment before releasing them with a huff of breath that still sounds angry.

"I get that your family apparently royally screwed up basically every idea you have about emotions or intimacy," Drake grits out, fingers still curled tight in his hair, "but how about the next time you feel like running away from your own feelings, you try — oh, I don't know — maybe _literally_ anything except being a monumental jackass?"

Damian blinks. "I… Next time?"

Drake lets go, stepping back and saying, "Yes, next time. Telling someone they're an unimportant piece of 'business' is _not_ the way to go about telling them you care, by the way, no matter what your grandfather thinks."

"It wasn't supposed to convey that," Damian defends, though that falls to the side as pieces click together in his head, and an unbelievable, heavy realization settles in his chest. He has to force the words up his throat, but he manages a quiet, "Do you… care as well?"

Drake just looks at him for several long moments, mouth a tight line that refuses to give away even a hint of his thoughts. “I don’t know,” he finally says. “Maybe. It sure as hell wasn’t why I started this, but… Maybe.”

Damian feels something in his chest relax and tighten all at the same time, joined by a nervous twist to his stomach that feels wholly unlike the ball it became when faced with Drake's silence. "Did you know what I felt?"

"No," is Drake's quick, firm response. "I knew that there was something more than you were telling me, but I just thought you had some kind of hormone-driven crush, or an interest in sex that you didn't know what to do with. I thought maybe if I taught you a few things you'd work it out of your system and move on, and it would be fun however long it lasted. But as it turns out you aren't _always_ an arrogant brat and maybe… Well, maybe you're not so bad when you're not trying to antagonize everything that moves." Drake braces his hands against his hips then, and adds, "It was definitely gratifying to have you actually admit that I was better at something for once though."

He doesn't know exactly what to think of that, or how to respond. He thinks he should be offended, but what ends up coming out of his mouth is a hesitant, "Then, you began this to enjoy victory over me?"

“Okay, that’s— That’s not _exactly_ what I said.” Drake lifts a hand, fingers running back through his hair, tugging at it. “Okay, yeah, it felt good to have you actually recognize that I knew more than you did, but that’s only _part_ of why I did it. Don’t you ever actually _listen_ to what people say?”

“Yes,” Damian defends, fighting the urge to cross his arms and ending up simply balling his hands into fists instead. “That _is_ what you said. I do not believe you deigned to teach me about intimate relations because you wanted to cure me of some _crush_ , and you have offered no other reason. Claiming victory—”

“I felt sorry for you!”

He blinks, staring down. His tongue feels suddenly heavy in his mouth, his chest drawing tight again in an almost painful way. Drake gives a harsh exhalation of breath, hands returning to brace against his hips once again.

“You were ashamed,” is the quieter addition, “and you were scared, and I felt sorry for you. You were an immature brat, but I didn’t think that you deserved to be ashamed of your own sexuality. I don’t think anyone does.”

All he can manage is a quiet, “Oh.” Drake is… not wrong. He’d thought that his desires were weakness, loss of control, but… now he doesn’t. Because of Drake’s instruction, because of his… pity.

(Drake _pitied_ him.)

“And then?” he hears himself say, distantly.

“Then?” This time, Drake’s exhalation sounds like a real sigh. “Then… you were attractive, and I was enjoying myself, and it was, kind of nice. You weren’t being an ass, and you were learning, relaxing… I thought everything was going well.” A deep breath, a contraction of Drake’s fingers on his hips. “And when you ended it like that, like nothing I shared with you mattered at all, it— it _hurt_ , and I was _so_ angry.”

Damian can’t find any words to say as Drake gives a snort of mostly humorless laughter, shaking his head.

“This feels _nothing_ like Steph did, or Cassie,” Drake starts, and Damian draws a little tighter before the addition of, “but I think… I think there’s _something_. I don’t know what it is, and I don’t know if it can be what you want it to, but I’m not going to just slam the door on it.”

When Drake doesn’t add anything, Damian slowly asks, “What does that mean?”

“It means…” Drake reaches forward, taking his hand and pulling it between them. The pressure of the gloved fingers makes his pulse pick up, even as he forces himself to remain still. “Look, do you want to give this an actual shot? See if it works?”

For a moment, Damian struggles to process that question. Then he blinks, and finds his fingers contracting around Drake’s. He can’t bring himself to tug his hand free, but he manages to say, “I do not want your pity, Drake. If that is all this is—”

“It’s not,” Drake interrupts, sharp but then softening as he continues, “If you’re interested, I’m willing to explore this. As long as you can try not to shut me out again?"

"I…” Damian looks away, feeling his chest compress again as he forces out a low, "I do not know if I can promise that."

It takes him a moment to gather the courage to look back at Drake, to see the expression there and the reaction to his inability to guarantee he will not try and preemptively drive Drake away again. It's… not as hostile as he feared it might be, or as disappointed. Instead, Drake merely looks at him, studying, bottom lip curling in to be caught between his teeth. Damian braces for the rejection that Drake would have every right to give. He's ruined things once already; the chances he will do it again are… too high.

(Drake has better options for partners, surely.)

There's a small, dry snort, and Drake finally comments, "Well, forewarned is forearmed, I guess." The hand in his squeezes tight for a moment. “I can’t promise anything either, Damian, but I think I’m willing to try. What about you?”

Damian feels his breath catch in his throat, but he swallows it away. "I… Yes, I believe I am.”

**Author's Note:**

> [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)


End file.
